


Fate Will Bring Us Home

by rthecynic



Series: The Missing Parts of My Soul [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014), d'Artagnan Romances (Three Musketeers Series) - All Media Types
Genre: D'Artagnan is a Romantic, M/M, Soulmate AU, Soulmate Flowers, Soulmate Letters, d'Artagnan Centric, flowers bloom on your body for significant people in your life, kinda follows episodes 1-3, you receive a vague warning about a danger that you need to save your future soulmate from
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 03:40:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29325621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rthecynic/pseuds/rthecynic
Summary: All his life, D'Artagnan has been told that the flower buds that cover his body will bloom into flowers as he meets other compatible souls, and that one day he will find his own missing half. As he grows, he dreams of finding those who complete him.A silly little soulmate au where your relationships are represented by flower tattoos that bloom when you meet the significant people in your life.
Relationships: Aramis | René d'Herblay/Porthos du Vallon, d'Artagnan/Athos | Comte de la Fère
Series: The Missing Parts of My Soul [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2154075
Comments: 7
Kudos: 36





	Fate Will Bring Us Home

**Author's Note:**

> This was fully enabled by Eli, Ches and Willow

D’Artagnan had always believed in the idea of soulmates. Tied together by fate, lost souls would wander the earth in search of each other. When compatible souls met, their bodies would be marked by flowers to symbolise their bond. Growing up learning the stories, D’Artagnan always thought it was such a romantic notion.

Everything he knew, he’d learned from his father. He’d seen the soft lavender rose upon his father’s chest; a sign of his true and adoring love for his wife. His mother had carried the same flower, though he’d never had the chance to see it for himself. As a child, he’d look at the unopened buds that rested over his own heart and wonder who would finally make them bloom.

His father had always told him he was lucky to have so many heart blooms. Most people, he’d said, only have one. A representation of a twin soul that their life would not be complete without. Some people went their whole lives without opening that bloom, others had to watch it lose its petals and die whilst their soulmate was still young. Yet D’Artagnan had three. Three souls out there in the world that were part of his own.

As he grew, he’d always find himself gazing at the vines that trailed along people’s arms, wondering what story each of them had to tell. It was common to see sunflowers, vibrant and proud, adorning these vines, each weaving an elaborate tale of friendship and loyalty. Sometimes, in place of sunflowers, gladioli would appear; a sign of the deep and eternal bond shared between two platonic twin souls.

On the left wrist, at the end of the vine, a pink carnation would show the love of a mother. On the right, irises would do so for a father. For as long as he could remember, D’Artagnan’s carnation had been withered and dead, and he could see the pity in strangers’ eyes as they glanced upon it. Everyone around him knew that his mother was either dead, or that he had no bond with her. It hurt, but he’d learned early on how every wilting flower told stories of a love being lost, how every dead flower told of a tragedy or a connection severed.

Sometimes, he’d see petunias. In contrast to the flowers that told stories of love and friendship, the bold colours immediately warned of an enemy; a story that had unleashed such anger in its bearer that the slight would never truly be forgiven.

And then there was the aconite.

D’Artagnan had never personally encountered someone with such a bloom upon their body. It was a symbol of a deep rooted, pure hatred, the likes of which could consume someone from the inside out. His father had always warned him against such people, who could hold such hatred in their hearts. D’Artagnan had never been entirely sure about this, as surely someone with such hatred and despair deserved help to find a way out of the darkness, but his father had been firm. Once such hate had entered a heart, there was no saving them.

By the time he reached his 13th birthday, D’Artagnan had already bloomed two petunias. His father had laughed, made some comment about learning to control his temper, and D’Artagnan had tried to channel his anger into his blade. His father was a keen swordsman and taught him how to fight, though the pupil had soon surpassed his master. D’Artagnan truly seemed to have a natural ability with the sword and flourished under his father’s tutelage. It wasn’t long before his name was known in Gascony as that of a blade wielding prodigy.

Having a focus for his anger helped, and only one more petunia bloomed during his teenage years. Those years flew by as he grew tall and strong, helping his father around the family farm and continuing to practice his skill with the sword. Yet, much as he loved his father, he found himself becoming bored with the life of a Gascon farmboy. He dreamed of adventure and excitement, though he’d never admit it. He dreamed of travelling to Paris, of wealthy and mysterious women, of fighting in the name of the king and the country that he loved. He dreamed of fame and glory and honour. Yet still he toiled on the farm, unwilling to leave his father behind. They’d only ever had each other, and D’Artagnan supposed that it was enough.

The night before his eighteenth birthday, his father finally showed him the letters.

Of course, D’Artagnan had always known that he’d receive a letter when he turned eighteen; everybody did. He knew that it would warn him of a danger that would one day befall his soulmate, the person who would cause the rose to bloom upon his heart. Only he would be able to save his soulmate from this danger, and only once the danger was averted would the flower finally come to life. The letters were supposed to be private, only able to be read by the intended receiver until the foretellings had come to pass. Even then, very few people ever chose to share them.

D’Artagnan’s father, however, sat him down that night and showed him the letter he had once received: _If you do not fight for her, she will lose all hope._ He then told his son the story of his parents’ love; how they’d been sweethearts, yet her father had arranged for her marriage to another man; by all accounts a cruel and vicious lord. He told of how he’d challenged his competitor to a duel for her hand, and how she’d later admitted to him that if he’d let her go, she didn’t think she would have lived to see her wedding day.

D’Artagnan, always a romantic, had listened to the story with eager anticipation, impatient to receive his own letter and gain a vital clue about his soulmate. When the envelope had been pushed under the door on the morning of his birthday, he had torn it open with trembling hands, his heart beating quickly in his chest as he glanced down to read the words:

___" _His past will be cleansed with fire and he will be consumed by it _"___ _ _

He felt as if his heart had stopped for a moment. He finally had his warning, and it terrified him. What would his soulmate do that would require his past to be cleansed? Was he going to be consumed by fire, or by the demons from that past? D’Artagnan thought he might be able to save his soulmate from one of those things, but the other was a completely different matter.

____~*~*~*~*~_ _ _ _

It was over a year later, just after he turned nineteen, that D’Artagnan finally found himself riding for Paris. He felt that his entire body almost vibrated with excitement; he was finally going to get to see the magnificent city for himself. His father by his side, adventure at his feet, he had never been happier.

Until that night at the inn.

If only he’d been faster. Stronger. If he’d reached his father quicker, or hadn’t left him alone in the first place. If they’d gone to the stables together, if he had reacted to the sound of the first gunshot, then maybe he wouldn’t be kneeling in the mud, cradling his father’s body, watching as petals rapidly began to fall from the irises on his wrist. Maybe he wouldn’t be out here in the cold and the rain, feeling the anger burning inside of him as the last petal fell and his father rasped out a name upon his last breath. Maybe he wouldn’t have bloomed another petunia that day, the name _Athos_ etched into his very soul.

______~*~*~*~*~_ _ _ _ _ _

Kept on the road to Paris by a need for vengeance, he was only met by more questions and a plot that he couldn’t quite get his head around. He indeed did find Athos, but something in his heart immediately seemed to tell him that something wasn’t right. He let his anger win out that morning, throwing himself into a fight as he’d always done, but his raw talent with a blade was nothing compared to the sheer grace and carefully honed skill displayed by the three men he found himself facing. He unleashed his rage upon the three of them: Athos, and the two men who defended him, but though they fought him valiantly, they seemed to have no desire to actually cause him harm. And when the guards came to take Athos away, when they sentenced him to die, the satisfaction that he thought he’d feel was nowhere to be found. Instead, his heart felt heavy, his mind seemed lost. There was only confusion; his father had been so certain in naming his murderer. Yet when Porthos and Aramis came calling, asking for his help to clear Athos’ name, he found himself agreeing without hesitation. Something deep inside him told him that Athos was a good man, that he never would have done this, and he had to find out the truth.

______~*~*~*~*~_ _ _ _ _ _

By the time the issue had been resolved and the true murderer revealed, D’Artagnan had gained three new blooms. The first had been a sunflower, coming to life as Madame Bonacieux had tended to him after the fight with the three Musketeers. As her hand had brushed his arm, the petals had begun to unfurl from a bud at his right elbow, the happy and vibrant yellow a stark contrast to the angry bold purple of his petunias. As he’d placed a hand upon her shoulder, a sunflower bloomed on her skin too and the two had smiled at each other. He had been her first bloom, she told him, and she had been his first flower of friendship. They both felt in that moment that it was special, and they knew that they would always be there for each other.

The second and third blooms both came at once. As D’Artagnan stood, watching Athos walk away from his place of execution, giving the Gascon a small nod of thanks as he passed by, he found himself crushed in a hug by Porthos and Aramis, the both of them grateful to him for his help in uncovering the truth and in saving their friend. And as they hugged him, D’Artagnan felt a joy in his heart, only to see the two Musketeer companions grinning at each other.

“Did you feel that?” Aramis asked, giving Porthos a conspiratory grin.

“I sure did,” Porthos replied, and then they both looked expectantly towards D’Artagnan.

D’Artagnan, for his part, was speechless. He knew he had felt something unlike anything he had ever experienced before, but Porthos and Aramis had both felt it too?

“W-What…?” was all he managed to say, causing them to chuckle and put their arms around his shoulders to lead him away from the scene.

“Do you have a heart bloom?” Aramis asked him as they walked. “That is to say, have you ever experienced that feeling?”

D’Artagnan slowly shook his head.

“I have three buds, but none of them are in bloom… I know it’s strange, but…”

He was cut off then by Porthos’ loud laughter. It was a laugh that D’Artagnan felt was warm and inviting and it would be impossible not to feel happier for it.

“Not as strange as you might think. We both have three heart blooms. Athos has four. We’d been wondering when we’d find our last piece.”

“I don’t know what you mean…”

“I think you do,” Aramis told him. “We felt our final blooms come out too. Check and see.”

D’Artagnan was somewhat taken aback by the bluntness of the direction, but curiosity won out and he found himself unlacing the front of his shirt to check his heart blooms. Just as Aramis had predicted, two gladioli now sat proud upon his chest, encircling the one remaining bud that had still to bloom.

Aramis and Porthos, almost perfectly in sync, mirrored his gesture to show him their identical tattoos; two gladioli encircling the final heart bloom. However, their tattoos had already bloomed into bright yellow roses, the edges of each petal tinged with a delicate red.

D’Artagnan blinked, taking a moment to take it all in, before he managed to murmur;

“You two… You are…?”

“Soulmates?” Porthos finished for him. “Yep.”

“Desperately in love?” Aramis teased, winking at the younger man. “You bet we are.”

“A-And the gladioli…?”

“You,” Aramis told him. “And Athos, of course.”

“Four parts of the same soul,” Porthos continued.

D’Artagnan shook his head.

“I don’t have a bloom for Athos…”

For some reason, that realisation caused a momentary pain to grip at his heart.

His two companions shared a glance, then looked back at him and carefully suggested;

“Maybe it just hasn’t happened yet…?”

“Or maybe…” D’Artagnan sighed. “Athos and I are just never meant to recover from this…”

______~*~*~*~*~_ _ _ _ _ _

His bond with Porthos and Aramis encouraged him to stick around with their little group. Whether Athos liked it or not, their three had become four, and D’Artagnan was becoming more determined by the day to join their ranks within the Musketeers. He’d at least seemed to gain Athos’ respect after he’d helped to take down Vadim from the inside, though he had received a lecture from the older Musketeer regarding his recklessness after he had almost found himself blown to pieces by the criminal.

As time passed, the four of them managed to fall into an easy rhythm; meeting for breakfast, training together, drinking together in the evenings before retiring to their own lodgings. It was somewhat comforting, D’Artagnan thought, almost like having a family again. Having Porthos and Aramis nearby always seemed to bring him a lightness of heart that disappeared along with them when they parted ways at night, and he was so grateful for their friendship.

Yet he found himself longing for Athos’ approval. He found himself training hard and often, found his heart soaring when Athos complimented his passion or his technique. He found himself striving to prove himself to this man in a way he had only ever desired to prove himself to his father. He wanted Athos to be _proud_ of him.

And it did seem that the two of them had managed to form a strong bond, in the same way that they had done with both Porthos and Aramis. But D’Artagnan knew that it couldn’t be real, because still no flower had bloomed for Athos and he’d learned that fate was never wrong.

________~*~*~*~*~_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Coming to La Fere had been a terrible idea, but a necessary one. D’Artagnan knew that Porthos would have died if they hadn’t stopped to care for him, but he couldn’t help feeling sympathy for Athos. It was clear how difficult it was for him to be here, in this house so filled with dark and bitter memories, and it hurt D’Artagnan to see him so pained. That was why it hadn’t sat well with him when Athos had told them to get back on the road without him, why he’d tried to convince Porthos and Aramis that they had to stay. It was why he’d decided, after they’d ridden away from the estate, that he just couldn’t leave Athos there in his misery. It was why he had to go back.

And he thanked God that he did. When he arrived back at the house, the old estate of Athos’ forefathers, it was to find it engulfed by flames. He froze at the sight of it, words echoing through his mind;

_His past will be cleansed with fire and he will be consumed by it._

“Athos…” he breathed, giving it no second thought before kicking down the front door and rushing into the burning house. This was it. This was the moment, the one that he had been preparing for throughout all these years. His only thought was of Athos, his heart beating so hard that he felt it might explode. Flames licked at the walls, at the furniture, at the _memories_ , but D’Artagnan didn’t care. Couldn’t care. All he could think, all that consumed his entire being was _Athos Athos Athos…_

He could hear distant screaming; it took him a while to realise that it was his own.

“Athos! Athos, can you hear me?!”

He heard no reply, no answering scream, but he did hear the coughing and the wheezing, both his own and that of another.

He found Athos lying on the floor, surrounded by fire, alive and conscious yet making no attempt to save himself from the flames.

“Athos!”

He ran to him, roughly pulled him to his feet.

“Come on Athos! Get up! Come on, get up!”

Throwing Athos’ arm around his shoulders, then wrapping his own arm around the older man’s waist, he dragged him free of the house, depositing him on the ground outside.

“Athos…”

He knelt by his companion’s side, using some water from a canteen to wash the ash from his face. Athos didn’t even react, merely staring as his family home was consumed, leaving him with nothing but ghosts and memories.

“Athos…?” D’Artagnan whispered, crouching in front of him in an effort to grab his attention. “Athos, are you alright? What happened? Who was…?”

All of a sudden, it was as if his breath had been taken away. He’d touched a hand to Athos’ cheek and it was as if all the air had been pulled from his lungs. His chest felt hot, almost as if the very sun glowed from where his heart should be. Falling back and landing on his butt with a thump, he looked down and found himself only able to blink in surprise.

A magnificent scarlet bloom now rested in the centre of the gladioli; a passionate fiery red that dominated his chest.

He heaved a few breaths, feeling his lips curl upward into a wide, beaming smile. He felt giddy, almost like he was experiencing the first passions of love all over again. His heart, though he hadn’t exactly felt the emptiness in it before, suddenly felt full and whole and he _knew_. He knew that finding his soulmate was all that his father had promised and more. He knew that he needed this man like he needed to breathe. He knew that Athos was his life and his love and his very heart and soul.

But right now, in this moment, was not the time for joyful celebration. Athos, who had not yet experienced his twin bloom, was haunted by the demons of his past and the ghost of a woman he had once loved. Athos needed him, and he would not let him down.

So he wrapped his arms around the older man and held him close, letting him weep and lament and cling tightly to D’Artagnan’s jacket to keep him close. And D’Artagnan would hold him for as long as he needed, and then nothing more would be said of this night. He would tell Athos of his bloom someday, but it was obvious that he was nowhere near ready for that yet.

But D’Artagnan could wait. After all, Athos was his soulmate and he’d learned that fate was never wrong.

**Author's Note:**

> The flowers used in this AU universe were chosen for specific meanings, so if anyone is interested:
> 
> Lavender rose - A romantic soulmate flower. Represents love at first sight.  
> Yellow roses with red tips - A romantic soulmate flower. Represents falling in love with a dear friend.  
> Red rose - A romantic soulmate flower. Represents passion and strong romantic love.  
> Irises - Represent the father. A flower that is on your right wrist when you're born, but can change depending on the dynamic of the father-child relationship.  
> Pink carnations - Represent the mother. A flower that is on your left wrist when you're born, but can change depending on the dynamic of the mother-child relationship.  
> Gladioli - A platonic soulmate flower. Represents giving a piece of your heart to that person.  
> Sunflowers - A friendship flower, which blooms for deep and significant friendships. Represent durable and long-lasting friendship and loyalty.  
> Aconite - An enemy flower. Represents hatred and a need for caution.  
> Petunia - An enemy flower. Represents anger and resentment.
> 
> Thanks for reading! It honestly means so much to me!  
> I have a few more stories planned for this universe, and this whole idea is killing me softly, so if anyone has anything they'd like to see, please let me know! :)
> 
> I'm capitaineathos on tumblr, come and say hi! Prompts are always welcome, and feedback gives me serotonin! ^_^


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